As Lirael and I pressed eastward through Aetheria’s vast prairies, Solara’s spring light bathed the rolling grasses, where Hexapods darted in triads, their iridescent hides shimmering like the streams of Nuahaven. Clumps of broad-leafed trees dotted the horizon, their branches swaying gently under the breeze, a stark contrast to the open expanses we trod. By midday, a shadow loomed in the distance—a Titanclaw, its massive form lumbering across the plain, scales glinting like molten iron. It paid us no mind, its gaze fixed on some unseen prey, and I recalled the wisdom of our shore kin in Nuahaven.
The coastal Silvrens, after the Gloomtread wars, had few troubles with those brutish giants. They learned a simple trick: clear the land around their homes, plant fields of grain, and let the open spaces deter the Gloomtreads. Those dim-witted titans, fearing the Titanclaws that roamed such plains, shunned the cleared lands. Our people, blessed with some scent or essence the great lizards found repellent, suffered only minor crop damage—a small price for safety. The Titanclaws, like silent guardians, did the rest, their hunger fixed on giants, not us.
The path we followed was narrow, barely wide enough for one, forcing me to lead with Lirael trailing behind. Her steps, lighter than mine, echoed softly, but as Solara climbed, I heard her breath grow labored. Glancing back, I saw her smaller frame struggling to match my pace, her long hair catching on stray branches, her dress swaying with each determined step. A pang of guilt struck me—I had set a man’s stride, unmindful of her. “Lirael,” I called, halting, “take the lead. Your pace suits the path better.”
She nodded, stepping ahead with a grace that belied her effort, her form outlined against the prairie’s green. As she walked before me, I noted her attractiveness—her flowing hair, her gentle movements, the quiet strength in her frame. Yet no spark of romance stirred in me, and I deemed it a blessing. After her fall, the discord that cost her kin and home, I guessed she’d shun men’s advances, her heart scarred by Kael’s abandonment. Instead, I saw her as a sister, perhaps even a mother or elder, wise beyond her years. It marveled me, this deep draw to her so soon—not as a lover, but as a kindred spirit, a perfect friend. The thought struck deeper: in Nuahaven, my life of crafting had left me friendless, a void I’d never named until now. Work had been my solace, but Lirael’s presence awakened a longing for companionship, pure and unromantic.
I realized then another strength Nua had granted me: leadership, not in prophecy or survival, but in guiding others with care. Adjusting for Lirael’s pace was a small act, yet it revealed my ability to lead with compassion, a skill I’d need on this journey.
Lirael, now in front, grew talkative, her voice rising like a Skydrake’s song over the prairie’s hum. “Heth,” she began, “you’re bound by Nua’s command, but what do we truly know of her? Where did the Eternal Shaper come from? Was she an outcast of greater gods, wandering the void before crafting Aetheria?”
I blinked, her question sharp as a geyser’s burst. “The Chronicle says Nua shaped our world from clay, her will eternal. Beyond that, the elders teach she is the source, unbound by origin.”
“But why?” Lirael pressed, dodging a root. “Did she have a syren and male, their joining birthing the world? The trinity’s sacred, but why three genders? Two would be simpler—less chance for discord, like my fall.”
I pondered, recalling words I’d overheard from elders in Nuahaven’s groves, men who studied the shapes of things—craftsmen and thinkers pondering Nua’s design through forms etched in stone and wood. “I’ve heard a theory, Lirael, from those who gaze upon the world’s bones. They speak of the triangle’s strength. Two points make a line, straight and true, but fragile—bend it, and it snaps like a dry branch underfoot. No balance, no hold against the winds. But three points form a triangle, steadfast and unyielding, like the Titan Spires’ peaks rising against storms. Each side braces the others; remove one, and it crumbles to nothing. So with genders—two alone would waver, unstable as a reed in quicksand, birthing weakness or endless strife. But three weave a form that endures, each gender upholding the rest, mirroring Nua’s moons in the heavens. The elders say it’s why creation stands firm; without the syren’s harmony binding male and female, life would falter like a poorly mended net.”
She glanced back, eyes probing. “And evil—Boana, the Boa Worms. No one’s seen them, Heth. Are they tales to scare us? Why does Nua permit evil at all? If she’s all-powerful, why not end it?”
Her words stirred unease. “Boana’s shadow is in discord, in division,” I ventured. “The Chronicle tells of worms born from the dead, twisting our ancestors’ world. Perhaps they’re not seen but felt—in choices, like your trial. Nua allows it to teach us, to choose harmony.”
Lirael’s pace slowed. “And why the exodus? Nua parted seas, sent eclipses, storms. Why not keep shielding us in the valley? Why send us to Aetheria, only to face Gloomtreads? Does she tire of miracles? And what of her purpose? Is she alone, or part of a greater dance we cannot see?”
I struggled, my craftsman’s mind no match for her probing. “Perhaps Nua tests faith, not strength. The valley’s miracles preserved us, but Aetheria’s trials forged unity, as Tanes taught. Her purpose… maybe it’s like the Titan Spires’ caves—vast, ordered, yet mysterious.”
She nodded, unconvinced but thoughtful. “Questions linger, Heth. If Boana rivals Nua, is there a balance beyond them? Why is discord so grave? My fall cost me everything, yet I live. Is Nua’s wrath or mercy truer? And what of the giants we seek—will they question as I do?”
Her queries echoed those whispered in Nuahaven’s councils, doubts I’d heard but never voiced. Was it irreverent to question thus? Yet, as we walked, I saw wisdom in her words. If I were to meet the giants, as Nua commanded, they might ask the same—why three, why evil, why exile? Her questions honed my faith, and I marveled at her knowledge. Lirael had near-memorized the Chronicle, her exile deepening her study. Each question taught me details I’d overlooked—Galoth’s wanderings, Tanes’s visions, the Covenant’s nuances. She was no mere outcast; her mind was a forge, shaping insight from pain.
As Solara dipped, a patch of woods loomed ahead, dense and shadowed, where Gloomtreads or worse might lurk. “Too dangerous to press on,” I said. “We camp here.”
Lirael agreed, swiftly gathering dry twigs from the prairie’s edge. With deft hands, she struck flint to spark a fire, its glow rivaling Korath’s hue. I watched, awed, as she mended a tear in my cloak, her needle weaving hide with practiced ease. “You’re indispensable, Lirael,” I said. “Fixing, mending—skills we’ll need in the wilds.”
She smiled, firelight dancing on her hair. “Exile teaches more than endurance, Heth. We’ll need every craft to reach the blue.”
We settled by the fire, the prairie’s whispers our only company, her questions lingering like stars under the three moons. The path eastward beckoned, and with Lirael’s wisdom at my side, I felt Nua’s purpose sharpening.
spikosauropod 